Waverly stepped out of the car, turning to Napoleon. "Now, Mr. Solo, my driver will make certain that the exchange goes smoothly."

"But, Sir, I, ah..."

"I believe you have something to see to?"

"Well, I-- Ah, yes. I did have to... see a man about a cat. A Blue." He nodded.

"Do hang onto this for me, Mr. Solo," Waverly handed him the book. "I would hate for anything to happen to it while I am in captivity. You may return it to me at the office."

He covered his surprise as best he could. "Yes, Sir. I'll do that."

---/-/---

"Now that you're done, Mr. Kuryakin, if you'd be so kind?" The door opened, and a pair of hands pulled him roughly to his feet, and to the other side of the bars.

Claire clung to his legs, but she was pushed back into the cell.

"Be careful with her! She's just a little child!" Illya shouted, wrenching himself out of the guard's grasp. "If there's a mark on her, Waverly will--"

"The old man wont know a thing. He's the ransom."

Illya paled. "You mean... they agreed to this?"

"Come on, walk this way!" The guard shouted, jabbing the Russian in the chest with his gun.

"Not in front of the children." Illya murmured. "I'll walk."

They reached a large room, equipped for torture.

"So if you're already getting Waverly, what is the point of having me here?"

A woman stepped out from behind the Iron Maiden in the corner. "Well, they were just going to do away with you-- we didn't *need* any information. But I thought this would be more fun."

"Do you know me?" He squinted, examining her.

"Through reputation only, I'm sorry to say." She cuffed his hands behind his back, and with her hand on the back of his neck and the guard's gun nudging his ribs, she led him over to a basin.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." He forced a polite smile.

"Yes." She flashed a genuine one.

"I've never had the honour."

"Hold your breath. They promised me you'd last." She dunked his head, pulling him back out after a few seconds.

He sputtered, shaking his head. Drops of water flew from his hair, splattering his captors.

"Like a dog." She sneered. "Really, Mr. Kuryakin. You're one of UNCLE New York's top two agents. Try to be a little more dignified."

"I apologize." He shrugged. "I guess I just don't like being wet."

She backhanded him. "Well, that's all right. There are so many other things I could do to you. Tie him up, Smith."

The guard obliged, fastening Illya to a nearby table.

"No rack handy?" He quipped, tossing his head. His bangs moved, no longer in his eyes.

"It's being oiled." She replied, her voice remaining as even as it had been almost without exception. Even when she hit him, she had betrayed no emotion.

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Yes, it's a crying shame. I have a nice rack."

"I'm sure. Pity I wont be seeing it."

She leaned over him, a predatory smile gracing her features. "I could arrange it, if you'd like to be kept alive a little longer."

"Oh, I'd hate to be a bother."

"How," she paused, hoisting herself up onto the edge of the table. "do you like," she paused again, swinging one leg over, straddling him. "to be beaten? You see, I'm reasonable. Oh, I hope you don't mind... See, it's easier on my spine this way. No awkward twisting."

"I hope this isn't one of those awful sexually tinged torture sessions you had in mind." He said flatly. "You're not my type."

"Not at all. Like I said, it's better for my back. You wouldn't want me to have lower back problems, would you, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I wouldn't wish them on anyone. I could think of something more creative, anyway."

"A man after my own heart."

"You're still not my type." He informed her.

She sighed, swinging off the table. "I know. I never was anyone's type. Back in school, they always said I was a sweet girl. Well, I'm not, but they couldn't say I was a pretty girl, could they? I never was. I was fat, you know? I lost all that weight, after high school, but you can still see, right here, where I used to be terribly fat. I'm still a plain girl."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean--"

"I've come to accept it. You see, Mr. Kuryakin, I always wanted to be an actress. And I was never pretty enough. I played 'Sonja' in high school, the plain girl, in love with a man-- everybody knew it-- and not pretty enough to be married off. Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, I know I'm not anyone's type."

"You ought to be on stage, regardless. You've got quite a flair for the dramatic."

"That's sweet of you to say, but I'll still be beating you."

"Of course. And, if it helps any, I don't find you plain. You're just not my type."

She raised an eyebrow. "Blondes? Brunettes? Tall, skinny girls with breasts the size of cupcakes and perky cherry nipples? Athletic ones, maybe?"

"I prefer the company of men."

She smiled. "Oh, good. That does make me feel better about myself. You're such a dear to lie to me like that."

---/-/---

Mark poured himself a cup of coffee with a sigh. The weight of knowledge he never wanted in the first place was bearing down upon him.

"Slate." Ginger nodded, picking up a cardboard cup and taking the pot from him.

"Oh, hi. April just went to look for you. She find you?"

"Saw her in the hallway. She's refilling DeLeon's water dish."

"That's good. I know she wanted to talk to you about... things."

"Who's on top." Ginger nodded. "We never came to an agreement, Mark, maybe you can give the deciding vote."

He put his hands over his ears. "I can't hear you..."

"She thinks Napoleon, for all the obvious reasons, but I think Illya is probably very dominating in the bedroom. What do *you* think?"

"I don't! I mean, I can't hear you!"

"Ponce." She snorted.

His arms dropped. "And that's another thing! You-- you always insult me! What on earth could I have possibly done to deserve this treatment?"

"You don't know?"

"No!"

"And you're a spy, I'm just a librarian. Of sorts, anyway. Aren't you supposed to figure these things out?" She smiled, twirling a lock of hair around one finger absently.

"Well, I can't. Enlighten me, please."

"Who do you think is right, me or April? I mean, sure, Napoleon seems like he'd be a top, but I just don't see Illya bottoming all of the time. Do you think they trade off?"

He covered his ears again, sighing. "Must we talk of nothing but sex?"

"Why not? This room isn't bugged. I checked an hour ago."

The hands fell again. "You did?"

"Yup. Wanted to be sure things could go freely."

"Go freely?"

"I didn't show up accidentally, Mark." She laughed.

"You mean, the only reason you came in here was to talk to me about the sex life of--"

"Well, the coffee's part of it. And, before you started getting all worked up, I had considered letting you know."

"Well, I don't want to know. I have absolutely no interest in who's on top."

"I meant about you."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "About why I've been giving you a hard time. I thought it would be best if we got everything aired out."

"Oh. Right. Well, go on."

Ginger took a deep breath, regarding him for a moment. Then she reached up, placed one hand on either side of Mark's head, and pulled him into a kiss. He was released fairly quickly and without tongue.

"I've wanted to do that for a while. Well, ta!" And with that, she left the room.

Mark remained, confused. She had gone from calling him a ponce to kissing him, and then she had left before he had a chance to question her. Well, when next he saw April, he could just ask her if Ginger fancied him, because he wasn't exactly sure, nor was he exactly sure how he would feel if she did.

---/-/---

To be continued...

*ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTE*: Ginger is *not* a Mary Sue, in case there were any doubts as to her legitimacy. If she was, she'd probably throw herself at Illya, and I can't write Illya with anyone but Napoleon. She's just a lower-level UNCLE employee who may or may not fancy Mark.

The defence rests.

---

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